


Needless Worry

by screamingarrows



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Jealous!Clint, natasha and steve a friends and its beautiful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1660841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingarrows/pseuds/screamingarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A jealous Hawk doesn't fly well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needless Worry

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Português brasileiro available: [Preocupação Desnecessária](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2444837) by [Rosetta (Melime)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melime/pseuds/Rosetta)



It wasn't even a question of where to go once SHIELD fell. Tony had offered them all an open invitation and after receiving a frantic phone call from Tasha ( _"Clint, leave the mission and come home. SHIELD's been compromised."_ ), well, it hadn't even occurred to him to go anywhere else.

Clint looks up at the Stark Tower as his taxi approaches it. It's been rebuild, of course, but it's the first time Clint's had enough time to pay attention. The top is unseeable from the angle he's at but he can see the bottom of the fluorescent 'A' lighting up the night sky. The cab pulls up to the curb smoothly and he turns to look at Clint over his shoulder. He coughs out a price and Clint pulls a wad of SHIELD's money and hands it to the driver.

"Thanks," Clint mumbles, he's more tired than he realized and he stumbles out of the taxi. He looks around before striding to the doors of the tower. The air-conditioned air washes over him; he's sweaty from the warm summer and the hot cab ride and goose bumps rise on his skin. He blinks around the room and sees _Hill_ at the receptions desk.

"Welcome to Stark Tower, do you have-" her words abruptly stop when she finally looks up from her computer and sees Clint standing in the center of the room.

"Barton?" She stands and Clint grins at her. The movement pulls at his split lip and presses on the bruise around his right eye but it doesn't dim his happiness at knowing she made it out safe.

"The one and only." He walks up to her desk and leans against it. She sits but her posture is stiff, like she needs to move but doesn't know where to go.

"Glad to see you here, Maria," he says softly and she blinks, her body loosening at that and she rests her hands on the table.

"You too. It… It fell so fast, we didn't have time to pull any one out.” Her voice is shockingly soft and Clint let’s his smile drop into one of small comfort.

“SHIELD trained some of the best. I’m sure more of them made it than we think.”

Maria nods at his words before looking up, sliding back the emotion like she’d been trained. _She’s on a mission, then_ , Clint’s mind supplies. She takes a deep breath before turning a bright smile at him and stands.

“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Barton. You’ve got a very anxious Widow upstairs.”

Clint follows Hill to the elevators and gives her a smile as the doors shut and the lift starts to rise.

"Welcome, Agent Barton," a mechanical voice greets. Clint blinks up at the ceiling, too tired to be openly surprised.

"Thanks?" He didn't mean for it to come out a question but the voice didn't seem to take offense.

"Mister Stark has been informed to your arrival, as has Agent Romanoff. They are waiting for you on the common floor." Clint nods and leans against the cool walls of the elevator. As he goes higher, something in his chest loosens until the elevator dings and the doors slide open. The first person he sees is Stark. The man's walking out of a side room, water bottle tucked under one arm. He snaps his fingers and claps his hands together, face lit up in a bright smile when he sees Clint.

"Hey," Clint says, stepping out of the elevator. His eyes roam the hall, the walls are cream, the carpet a dark chocolate. Fluorescent lights light the area with artificial accuracy, not a shadow in sight.

"Welcome to my humble abode, well, our humble abode. I can show you your abode soon, 63 floor. Not too bad if I do say so myself-" Tony's spiel is cut off with the sound of laughter coming behind him. Clint's eyes dart past Tony and Tony grins, rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. "Well, the group's in there, I'll see you around Hawkeye."

Clint frowns at the sudden dismissal but Tony's edging past him to the opened elevator and he can hear Natasha's voice calling him like a siren's song. He stumbles to the doorway and looks into the room.

The lighting is easier here, a safe yellow versus the clinical white. Clint blinks. There's a couch in the center, a love seat on its left, and two chairs on its right; all the furniture is angled around a large TV with a coffee table in placed conventionality in front of the couch. Natasha is sitting on the floor, feet tucked up under her as she leans against the far edge of the couch, arms resting on the coffee table. Steve Rogers is leaning against a chair and an unidentified black man is sitting across from them, his back to the TV. It takes Clint a moment to realize they're playing a card game and he thinks he must be more tired than he thought.

He stands and watches them, watches as Natasha throws out a playful insult and when Rogers retaliates, she tosses her head back in a laugh. He hadn't heard her laugh like that in a long time and something twists in his gut that _Rogers_ was the one who was able to bring it out of her.

The dark man looks up and sees him standing in the doorway. Clint bristles at the way the smile drops from his face and he sits up straighter, like Clint's a _threat_. This brings Nat's and Rogers' attention and Clint steps further into the room. Natasha jumps up and comes to him, grabbing him in a tight hug. Clint stiffens, she never shows this much with other people around.

"Hey Tasha," he whispers into her ear and tightens his arms around her before letting her pull away. Rogers nods when Clint looks over. The other man is relaxed again, but eyeing him with curiosity and something about the scrutiny coupled with his bone-weary exhaustion makes him want to make a hasty retreat. Natasha picks up on his tension and touches his wrist once before turning and pointing at the men.

"Clint, Steve, Sam Wilson." She introduces everyone efficiently. "He's a... new recruit," Natasha settles when Clint looks at her with a raised eyebrow. Clint looks back at the man, Sam Wilson. He's obviously military, recent if he had to guess. Clint steps forward and offers his hand. Wilson stands to shake it and rests his hands at his side, completely at ease.

"So, what's your superhero name?"

"Hawkeye." The man's mouth twitches and Clint barely has time to narrow his eyes before he continues.

"I'm Falcon."

Clint's mouth twitches up even as his stomach clenches.

"Nice to meet you. Well," he backs up and gestures to the door. "I ought to get going. Stark said something about 63 floor so I should probably head up there..." He lets his voice trail off and turns to leave. He hears Natasha's bare feet pad after him and slide behind him into the elevator.

They ride in silence, both just accepting each other's presence as a reassuring reminder that they're alive. When they reach Clint's floor, Natasha takes lead. The lights turn on automatically and reveal the project Stark was so happy about. The hardwood floors are light brown, a black rug is spread out in his living room. There's a TV, smaller than the one on the common floor, but big enough; there's a couch, black with hints of purple thread running through it. Clint smiles as they pass and Natasha leads him directly to his bedroom.

This light doesn't turn on and they maneuver to the bed- it's tall, Clint notices, four posters with a canopy above it- using the hall light. Natasha lays him in bed and sits on the edge before lying down next to him and tucking her feet under his body. He shifts to accommodate her, draping one arm over her waist and burrows his face in her neck.

"So," he murmurs, "Falcon?"

She huffs a laugh. "Yeah, I thought it was oddly fitting."

Clint thinks of real falcons. He doesn't know much, and he tries to remember if falcons had good eyesight. If they were better than hawks.

"Making more bird-friends to replace me?" He asks. It's a joke, but it feels more serious than he intended. Natasha flexes her toes and breathes out easily.

"Just go to sleep Clint," she says softly and Clint's never been able to disobey her.

\-----

In the morning, Natasha's gone, the space she occupied has long gone cold. Clint stretches in the empty bed before forcing himself up. His muscles are stiff and ache from the beating he'd taken. Price to be paid, he supposes, when one pulls out of a mission too early and is discovered to be a spy. He's just glad he's relatively safe, with Natasha unharmed in the same place.

After rolling out his shoulders he slides off the bed and stands, stretching out his spine again with a wince. Slowly the room gets brighter and Clint peaks an eye open to see the window is becoming un-tinted.

"Good morning, Agent Barton," the mechanical voice from last night says and Clint's eyes dart to the ceiling. "It is 12:34 pm and it is currently 74 degrees outside. The sky's are clear now but there is an 87% chance of rain in the evening. Agent Romanoff is on the common floor, cooking lunch along with Captain Rogers and Mister Wilson."

Clint frowns and rubs at his cheek. He winces when his fingers graze over the dark bruise there and he lets his hands fall to his side.

"She's cooking with them?"

"Yes, sir. They appear to be making quesadillas."

Clint lets his face twist in confusion as he stared up at the ceiling. He shrugs and starts toward the door, only to hesitate in the frame.

"Thanks," he murmurs before heading toward his bathroom.

His reflection is rough. His lip had split open again in the night and dried blood speckles down his chin. The black eye is a deep, dark, ugly purple, he's lucky he can even open it. Carefully, Clint peels off his shirt and stares at the motley of cuts and bruises along his torso. There's a patch of black on his ribs and he touches it tenderly before pulling back with a hiss. Not broken, but he'd bet on a fracture.

His eyes met his reflection again before sighing and stripping of the rest of his clothes and getting into the shower. He washes as fast as he can and gets out, wrapping a towel around his waist without even bothering to dry off before darting across the hall to his bedroom.

He looks around the room, suddenly, and grips the towel tighter around his waist. _Clothes_. He doesn't have clothes. He walks to the dresser near his bed and pulls open a drawer, hoping that Natasha had the foresight to grab him something.

The first drawer holds a knife he doesn't remember taking off his belt and a small journal. He picks it up and turns it over. The leather is soft and dyed the deepest purple he'd ever seen. He flips open the cover and sees his initials etched into the first page. He wonders if it is from Natasha or Stark before sliding it back in the drawer and opening the next one.

Clint let's out a low whistle of appreciation when he finds a stack of his shirts. The next one is filled of more of his clothes and he's fervently reminded why he loves Natasha so much.

He dresses quickly, his standard clothes settle over him like a second skin and he feels comforted at their normality. With everything that's happened, Clint embraces normality like an old friend. Of course, one step outside his bedroom shattered the feeling to hell. None of this was normal, Clint thinks looking around the apartment. At least, not normal for him.

He lengthens his strides to the elevator, ignoring the twinge of back muscles. The elevator opens as he approaches and Clint doesn't have the time to be paranoid by that.

"Where to, Agent?" The voice asks.

"The common floor," he says, and then because he wasn't _actually_ born in a barn he adds, "please."

"Certainly, sir," the voice says and Clint's a monkey's uncle if it doesn't sound pleased by his manors.

The ride down is quick and when he gets off he makes sure to thank the disembodied voice. It seems like a good idea to keep on the good side of Stark's machines.

The sound of laughter, again, draws Clint in. He follows the sound to the kitchen where Wilson is bent over the sink, drinking water straight from the tap and Rogers and Natasha are both shaking with laughter.

"I told you," Rogers manages to choke out and Natasha is launched into a mess of giggles again. "I told you."

Clint watches the scene before stepping inside. He snags a slice of Nat's quesadilla and sits down next to her. She looks up, the giggles slowly becoming more manageable, and smiles at him.

"Hey Barton," she says happily and Clint can't help but smile back.

"Agent," Rogers greets, a little breathlessly, and Clint inclines his head at the team leader sitting on the other side of Natasha. Wilson seems to finally get himself under control and turns around, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and glaring at the two sitting beside Clint, innocent smiles on their faces.

"You," he says, pointing his fingers at them. Clint arches his eyebrow and glances over at Natasha. She simply smirks and goes to eating the rest of her lunch. Clint spots a bowl sitting innocently between Rogers and Natasha. Craning his neck he sees the stem of a little red pepper and suddenly it makes sense.

"A little pepper too hot for you?" He mocks, playfully. Wilson turns his glare on Clint and Clint smirks. Never one to back away from a challenge, and the look he's receiving from Wilson is definitely a challenge, Clint reaches over and snags the stem of the nearest pepper. He pops it into his mouth and bites it in half.

"Dude I grew up in a circus. We came across peppers way hotter than this," he proclaims and grins over at Natasha.

Wilson scoffs and throws his hands in the air before walking out of the room mumbling about superheroes having super dead nerves. Rogers's chuckling again and he gets up, puts his plate in the sink, and goes to follow Wilson to wherever the man's going. Natasha stands and is at the sink rinsing off her plate when Rogers pokes his head back in.

"Hey, Tasha, sparing tonight at 7?" He asks and Clint nearly chokes. She's _Tasha_ to him?

Natasha looks over her shoulder and nods. "Yeah, sounds good."

Rogers grins before leaving and Clint frowns at the table. He can feel the burn of the pepper in the back of his throat and he wonders just what he missed while he was away.

\-----

For the first time in years Clint is spending his downtime alone. Well, okay, that's not true. He's not _technically_ alone. And granted, he did used to have _some_ time at SHIELD alone, but that was usually when Natasha was away on a mission and he wasn't. Whenever they were on a break at the same time, they were always together. It was their _thing_.

Hawkeye and Black Widow.

Romanoff and Barton.

Where one was, the other was sure to be found nearby.

Clint bounces a tennis ball against the wall and catches it easily. His bruises are starting to fade, the cuts on his torso are all but gone. He tosses the ball again and catches it. He has a lot of pent up energy and he just can't dispel it, no matter how many hours in the gym he gets. He thinks about going to find Stark. The man's been avoiding them all like the plague, which rubs Clint the wrong way. The billionaire hadn't seemed so, standoffish, when they'd first met. Although, when they first met they _were_ battling aliens so maybe first impressions weren't worth too much.

Clint tosses the ball, again, again, again. Each time it bounces back to his hand with more force. He tries to block out the thoughts in his head, to only focus on the ball. The ball is all that's important now, nothing else should matter. Just empty headspace and the gentle thwack the ball makes when it hits the wall.

He misses her.

The thought takes him by surprise and he throws the ball too high. It rebounds over his head and he can't catch it before it's bouncing off the floor into the hall.

He can't... he can't _miss_ her. You can't miss something you still have. She hasn't _gone_ anywhere.

He stands up, palms damp. He wipes them on his jeans and turns around, looking at the empty room as if he expected to see her sitting on his couch.

"J-JARVIS?" Clint asks to the ceiling.

"Yes, Agent Barton?" Clint swallows and shoves his hands in his pocket.

"Do you know where Tasha is?" He asks before shaking his head and saying, "Natasha?"instead. Then just as quickly changing to, "Agent Romanoff?"

"Yes, sir. Agent Romanoff is in the study with Mister Wilson. Would you like for me to call for her?"

Clint swallows the sudden lump in his throat and shakes his head. "No, no thank you."

He takes four steps toward his window before turning towards the vents before stopping again. "Can you take me to Stark?"

"Certainly sir," JARVIS answers and Clint detects a hint of happiness coming from the AI. The elevator doors ding open in the hall and Clint walks over and gets inside. He's taken up several floors before the elevator finally slows and the doors slide open.

Clint can see Stark through the glass surrounding his lab and he knocks on the glass to catch the billionaire's attention. Stark looks p, wide eyed. Clint can see his mouth moving and he assumed he's talking to JARVIS. Clint waits with his hands behind his back while Stark makes his way over to the door.

"Hey Agent," he greets easily when he opens the door. He leans against the frame, his fingers getting a smudge of grease on the glass.

"Hey."

"Anything I can do for you?" Stark prompts and Clint resists the urge to shuffle his feet.

"No, just thought you might like some company," he can't help the uptick his voice makes and Stark heard it.

"Uh," he narrows his eyes at the archer, searching him for something. Apparently Clint is satisfactory because Stark nods and steps aside. "Yeah, sure, come on in."

Clint follows Stark to the table he was working at and they sit in awkward silence. Clint watches Stark work then lets his eyes drift around the shop. It's chaotic for sure, a mess of tools and half-finished prototypes, but Clint can see that there's some semblance of order to it. Despite the mess though, it feels like it's lacking something Clint can't quite place.

His attention is drawn away from the thought and back to the brunet when he lets out a hiss of pained breath.

"You okay?" He asks, raising his eyebrow as he looks at the man. Stark has flung his tool away and is shaking his hand, eyes closed before flashing open at Clint's question.

"What? Yeah, of course." Stark scoffs and reaches for his tool and carefully prods at the thing in his hands. He jerks suddenly, but this time he's silent. His tool falls out of his hand and Clint's at his side before he knows what he's doing. 

"Stark? Are you okay?" Clint asks and inspects Stark's arms for damages. He doesn't see anything but the tips of his fingers look dark under the grease that's there.

"Y-yeah just a-"

"Here, wash this off," Clint interrupts and jerks Stark to his feet. He looks around and finds a washtub and drags Stark to it. He washes the finger tips delicately and frowns at the complete silence on Stark's end.

He focuses back on his task and realizes that the fingertips are in fact blackened, but they don't appear to be anything serious, they almost look stained. Most likely Stark's been working a while and hasn't taken as much time cleaning his hands as he should've.

"You good, Mother Hen?" Stark asks when Clint looks up from his hands. "Mother Hawk? Never mind, the joke doesn't stick either way," Stark shrugs off Clint's touch and goes back to his desk, drying his hands on his shirt. Clint follows a second later and sits on the stool closer to Stark.

"What're you working on?" Clint asks. Stark looks up with a blink before looking back down.

"The electrical outlet for the battery of Falcon's suit." He says it blandly and Clint blinks at the tone.

"You don't like him?"

"Oh I like him plenty. He's a good guy," there's no hint of sarcasm to be found. "Great guy. He really had their backs in DC."

Stark's voice has turned to flint and Clint looks at the engineers face. It's dark, full of anger.

"Gave them air support." It's said almost like a curse and Clint looks around suddenly. He knew there was something missing; the suits. All the Ironman cases stand empty and painfully bright.

Stark has gone back to working on the electrical output in silence and Clint purses his lips.

 _Gave them air support because you couldn't,_ Clint thinks. He watches as Stark puts all his energy in fixing Falcon's suit and wonders if he, too, feels like he's being replaced.

\-----

It's late when Clint finally abandons Stark in search for food. He offers to grab the man something and come back but Stark waves him off and tells him he'll grab something later. Clint leaves, wandering into his own kitchen after JARVIS quietly drops him off on his floor. He opens his fridge and the empty white light shines out. Clint huffs and goes to open a cabinet, nada. Nothing but a few sets of dishes.

He thinks about going to Natasha's floor, he hasn't been there yet but he's sure JARVIS will take him there. One glance at the clock above his stove makes him abort the idea. She'd most likely be asleep and he doesn't want to wake her.

Clint sighs. Maybe he should just go to bed too, ignore his hunger and just eat eggs for breakfast or something.

"Mister Stark keeps the common kitchen well stocked," JARVIS says helpfully when Clint sighs again, louder this time.

"Thanks," Clint says hesitantly. There's something unsettling about being under constant surveillance but Clint supposes the machine hasn't steered him wrong yet, so he decides to take the helpful hint.  

His stomach is in full growl mode by the time he reaches the right floor and he wastes no time in finding the kitchen. He roots around the refrigerator and pulls out three different kinds of sandwich meat. JARVIS directs him quietly to the bread and Clint makes short work of building himself a sandwich. Humming appreciatively when he bites into it, Clint snags the plate with one hand as he bites into the sandwich again. He holds the plate loosely under his sandwich as he walks toward the living room.

His plan is to chill on the couch, catch up on some infomercials, but he freezes in the doorway when he gets there. Rogers is in there. The TV is low and his head is lulled against the back of the couch in sleep. Clint decides it’s okay to move in and he heads for one of the recliner chairs. He’s rounding the couch when a splash of red on Rogers’ shoulder catches his eye. Clint looks over and his heart stutters in his chest.

It’s Natasha, sleeping. On Rogers.

Clint takes a step back in shock. Now they’re… they’re _sleeping_ together? He looks down at the sandwich in his hand and sets it on the plate. He walks out quietly and sets his plate on the kitchen counter, his appetite gone faster than an arrow released. The elevators slide open silently and close behind him. Clint stares at his reflection, wondering when he’d drifted so far away from her.

Wonders if it was before or after Loki.

“Just take me to my rooms,” he murmurs to the wall and the elevator jerks before humming upward.

\-----

The next morning Clint arrives at Stark's lab, two coffee cups in his hands. He knocks on the glass with the tip of his shoe and Stark looks up, frowns before smiling brightly. He walks to the door and props it open for Clint to come in. He's working at a different table today, and Clint settles around the workspace carefully. Stark stumbles around the table and Clint holds a coffee cup out to him.

"For me? Barton you shouldn't have," Stark says, fluttering his eyelashes. He takes a sip of the coffee and his eyes widen in surprise. Clint smirks behind his own cup; he'd asked JARVIS how Stark likes his coffee and the AI had happily obliged.

"What're you working on today?" Clint asks.

“A suit for Bruce.” Clint looks at the weird webbing of material and frowns.

“Dr. Banner?” Stark looks up, eyebrows half-raised in amusement and a smirk toying his lips.

“Yes Barton, Dr. Banner.” He looks back down at his material and pulls it between his fingers. It’s stiff, like armor, and Clint can’t see how that will benefit the scientist in battle. Stark starts muttering things and occasionally asks a question aloud, eyes raising to meet Clint’s. Clint never knows the answer and feels about two feet tall before Stark stops the questioning and continues on with his talking. He explains the thought process, what he wants to achieve, and how he thinks he’ll get there. Clint watches with sharp eyes as Stark pieces the material together like chainmail.

It’s comprised of small, metallic pieces that stick together without trouble when placed near each other but don’t appear to come apart. Clint narrows his eyes as Stark explains in deeper detail the force the metallic pieces hold and he blinks, sitting up.

“Is it like EMP?”

“Exactly like EMP,” Stark says with a smile. “Except instead of exploding with gamma radiation, it’ll just shift.”

Clint makes an approving face and nods. “So, armor for Banner and pants for the Hulk.”

Tony snorts, “yeah, I guess so.”

“Armor?” Another voice calls out and Clint turns in his chair sharply before identifying the messy , salt-and-pepper haired man.

“Of course!” Stark replies loudly, spinning on his stool and clapping his hands at the man before him. “Gotta protect your body, Doctor.” Stark winks and Banner hands him the coffee he has apparently brought down.

“Agent Barton,” Banner says with a nod. “I didn’t know you’d be down here, I can go grab you a cup if you want.” Clint looks up. He hadn't noticed his eyes were stuck on the new cup of hot coffee in Stark's hand.  

He clears his throat. “No, no I’m good. I was just heading out anyways.” Stark sends him a sharp look but Clint doesn’t care. He stands and walks out, pausing briefly to nod in both men’s directions before retreating up to his room.

Stark has another genius to play with, Clint’s not really needed anymore.

\-----

Stark doesn't have time to finish the suit for Banner before someone else is trying to destroy New York. The call to assemble sounds on all their floors and Clint grabs his bow before jumping into his old uniform.

The SHIELD logo on his chest seems like a stain now and Clint runs his fingers over it like he might be able to rub it off. The symbol used to mean something but now just looking at it made the foul taste of deception rise in the back of his throat. He pushes back the feeling and heads to the roof, where JARVIS had instructed him to be.

Stark has suited up, his armor something completely new. It's sleek, contorting to his body with more finesse than any suit previously had. Banner's standing beside him, folding his glasses and putting them into his front pocket. Wilson is walking toward Rogers and Natasha, the two are standing by a helicopter talking. Wilson’s walk is strong, confident, the weight of the wings on his back don’t seem to faze him in the slightest and he walks to Rogers and stands with a serious face.

Rogers lifts up his hand and the team falls in around him. He raises his voice above the sound of the helicopter engine and briefs them quickly on what’s going on. Apparently, mutant lizards. What the hell?

Clint follows everyone onto the helicopter and tries to pretend he doesn’t notice Natasha walking at Rogers’ right.

 

 

The damned things fly.

Clint’s releasing arrow after arrow into the hissing beasts. He’s on top of a bakery, not the highest point but the lizards can’t seem to get their massive bodies very high either. He drops another, it goes careening into the street, dead on contact. The Hulk roars somewhere behind him and Clint looks up, sees the green reflection in the mirrors across the street. Stark whizzes by overhead, snarking into the comm unit. Falcon replies with a grunt and Clint sees him jump off a building down the street and tuck his mechanical wings into his body as he grabs a lizard and spins it into the wall before opening his wings and swooping up again with a shout. Below, Rogers and Natasha are taking down the floored lizards systematically. He sees Natasha run across an abandoned car, a shadow passing over her. Clint releases an arrow above him and a lizard dives straight down, knocking down a power line.

“Cap jump!” Clint warns and Rogers obeys without thought. His feet leave the car roof seconds before the wire lights up the car with sparks. Cap sends up a salute before guarding Nat’s back. Falcon is doing his falcon-dive again when a second lizard comes up on his left. Clint releases two arrows, sending the unseen lizard exploding into the bakery he’s standing on. The building shakes and the roof crumbles before Clint has a chance to let loose a grappling arrow.

He falls through two floors before landing on the ground floor. He groans, the comm feed buzzing in and out in his ear. He tries to roll over but there’s a sharp pain in his back and he falls back with a gasp.

“-awkeye?” The feed buzzes. Clint can’t catch his breath to reply.

“Bar-” The world is funneling into a black pinpoint of pain. He feels hot and sweat drips down his forehead. Peaking his eyes open, he sees a wall of red and orange; flames. Great. He huffs before tensing and trying to get up again. He’s unsuccessful and panic swells in his mind. The remaining parts of the ceiling crackle above him, falling in small increments.

“Dammit Clint!” A voice says sharply. It cuts through the pain and fear like a knife through butter and it anchors him. Natasha’s face comes into view and Clint tries to smile reassuringly at the serious pinched look on her face.

“H-hey Tasha,” he pants out. She kneels beside him and runs her hands along his neck, down his arms and under to his back. He winces but he can feel her continue down to his knees so he counts it as a win.

“I’m going to pick you up.” There’s no reassurance in her voice, no room for questioning or arguments. “Ready?”

Clint squeezes his eyes shut as Natasha slides her hands under him and lifts him bridal style. She carries him out, the flames pushing at their backs and the fresh wind chills Clint’s body.

“Ironman,” she barking into her comm. Clint can’t hear a response but Natasha’s looking up in the sky and soon there’s the metallic sound of Stark’s suit landing beside them. The metal arm wraps around Natasha’s waist and the other wraps around Clint’s side. They jet off and Clint doesn’t have time to register the pain before they’re landing again. Natasha’s striding with him in her arms like it’s where he’s supposed to be, and he has to fight not to giggle at the thought.

“Hush, Clint,” she says softly. Did he say that out loud?

“Yes, now we’re almost to medical.” Her voice is soft and his eyes dart to her face. It’s smudged with soot and alien guts but she’s still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Clint, you’re concussed. Just, stop thinking.”

Clint tries to comply and before he knows it she’s setting him down on a white bed and she’s being pushed away by men in lab coats. An oxygen mask goes over his face and he can feel a pinch in his biceps before the world dims to grey.

 

When Clint comes to awareness, the room is dark. He blinks up at the ceiling before finding the energy to tilt his head to the side. There’s a weight by his hand and he looks down, flexes his fingers and feels soft, damp hair. He smiles and blinks sleepily. He taps on her head and she sits up, stretching her back and looking at his face with attention.

“Don’t sleep like that,” he slurs and shifts. Whatever wounds he suffered in his fall don’t hurt, Clint suspects the IV in his arm to be the reason. Natasha looks hesitant a moment before climbing up beside him and resting her head on his chest, right above his heartbeat. She listens for a moment, she’s so still Clint thinks she’s fallen asleep, when she takes a deep breath and tightens her fingers in his hospital gown.

“I love you, Clint,” she says softly. He wraps his arms around her and tightens the grip. He just holds her until she’s relaxed her grip on him.

“I love you too,” he whispers before placing a kiss on her head. She sighs and snuggles her head into his chest. She doesn’t let him go, not even in sleep, and Clint wonders what he’d ever been worried about.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr prompt: hawkeye being suspicious and a bit jealous of all the time natasha and steve spend on missions then in a middle of a mission nat appears and saves his ass
> 
> okay so i kind of went off the prompt a little because they dont really accept shield missions anymore so, yeah, here it is! I really liked writing this:)


End file.
